this poem is fashioned immortal
inked feet footprint timelessness
on the walls of this cyber-womb
birthed to exist fully preserved
frozen in pure bad mothered
breath-steeped dreadful magik
it will curse the bones of you
future archeologist of poetry
curses
Paul Scribbles 
I like to imagine the future poem archeologist’s face as he reads these potent lines. Smiles.
Oh no.. though future poetry archeologist is probably an AI with or without bones 🙂 🙂
Yes! We sure aren’t kind on the future. Who know what will be there to make sense of the blot and smear and flatulent I Ams we posted in such earnest …
I love this spell song/curse and prophecy, Paul, full of the weight of the past and the electric bondage of the present. Men and women working three jobs for a pittance to survive while AI writes poetry and paints is a curse that falls in our present dark hour like a radioactive snow of our own making, and who knows whether the future will see it melt or freeze-kill all the things that matter. Or so I read. I like this one very much.
Puts me in mind of the horror movie plot about some powerful and dangerous thing being found in the ice at one of the poles. mayhem ensues. To put it in a poetic context is just satisfyingly off-kilter and close to home.
–Shay
Thanks. 🙏
Oh, a cryptic omen, but it makes me still want to ‘dig’. I like the ‘fact’ that everyone reading the poem, upon reading the closing words, will have an entirely different and their own first thought upon what is the relic, making a sort of ‘togetherness’ of it all.
Dig away 😎